


By Gaslamp's Light

by beetle



Series: Manapunk Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Clockpunk, F/F, F/M, Future Fenris/Male Hawke, Gaslamp Fantasy, Gen, Lyriumpunk, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Manapunk, Minor Anders/Male Hawke (Dragon Age), One-sided Dorian Pavus/Male Hawke, Past Anders/Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Past Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Steampunk, Victorian Attitudes, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: In a Manapunk Thedas, on an early spring evening,Dr. D. P. Thalrassian (Inventor and Purveyor of Lyrium-Fueled and Clockwork Contrivances Most Unique)gets lost, and finds himself back to chest with a rather large, kidnapping miscreant, bearing a talisman that creates mystica such as he’s never seen—and despite the fact that, like all mystical devices in Thedas, it’s powered by the same medium: liquid or gaseous lyrium.The good doctor is in quite a fix, due—in no small part—to his mysterious and secretive business partner sending him a cryptic note with cryptic directions, leading to a pub called The Spurned Chevalier, in a rather suspect sector of Minrathous. But eventually, the brute hauling him through the Minrathous night will slip-up. And when he does, well . . . tame recent years aside, Dr. D. P. Thalrassian’s still a dab-hand at mystical dueling. And, thanks to the skill of his troublesome business partner, wields a unique and powerful gauntlet that’s more than up to any mystical challenges. Even giant, brute-abductors.
Relationships: Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi & Iron Bull, Dalish/Skinner, Felix Alexius/Calpernia, Fenris/Male Hawke, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Series: Manapunk Thedas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604869
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic, The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	By Gaslamp's Light

**Author's Note:**

> For the Adoribull Reverse Big Bang 2019 and [Tevinterphoenix](https://tevinterphoenix.tumblr.com/)’s [prompt](https://tevinterphoenix.tumblr.com/post/190311532929/well-its-been-a-hot-minute-since-i-posted). Set Post-Trespasser by less than two years. SPOILERS. Altered setting and worldbuilding, altered timelines and events. Ensemble cast, and plenty of “cast” and locations/aesthetic photos linked to in-story, for reference and fun :-)  
  
Welcome to Lyriumpunk (or Manapunk) Thedas! It’s all the Steampunk and Victorian Era-chic that you love, only everything runs on various forms of lyrium—most commonly, liquid, and gaseous. Plus, side-helpings of Clockpunk, Gaslamp Romance, and probably a few other retrofuturistic cyberpunk derivatives. First fic in a SERIES, so, bear with me and buckle up!
> 
> **[Dorian Pavus | Dr. D. P. Thalrassian](https://www.pinterest.com/beetleb80/art/dorian-pavus-dr-d-p-thalrassian/)/[The Iron Bull](https://www.pinterest.com/beetleb80/art/the-iron-bull/).  
**  


It’s only after [Dr. D. P. Thalrassian](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656710/)’s lost track of the direction from which he came—as well as which direction he’s meant to go—that he finally concedes that he is, in fact, quite turned around. Or flat-out lost.

No small concession, that, for a man who’s lived all of his adult life and half his adolescence in the largest, most cosmopolitan city in all of Thedas. It’s not at all grudgingly that he admits to himself that, even at his own least discriminating low-points and the years immediately following his repudiation of his father’s family. He’s never seen the absolute worst the city of Minrathous has to offer.

_And_, the good doctor thinks grimly, as he stalks through [a particularly depressing, warren-like neighborhood](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656755/), endeavoring to appear neither rushed nor trawling these dank, barely-peopled streets (himself dressed in shadowy colors, but for the grim-cold glint of his gauntlet and the flash of its focus), _I still have not seen the worst my chosen home has to offer. I could be murdered in this sector right now . . . die in this cringing, squalid little maze of side streets, and have died a better death than the _lives_ of many in this and other sectors which are far worse than “squalid.”_

But Dr. Thalrassian knows he _will not_ die in this sector, tonight or any other. His gauntlet makes that highly unlikely simply by his wearing of it and the power it hints at, never mind the fields of _mana_ it actually helps him to create, tap, and manipulate. To focus, and _wield_ to miraculous and sometimes devastating effect.

Though more than a bit iffy, this sector is unlikely to attract others of Thalrassian’s power and skill who are also willing to advertise that fact by taking him on for no reason other than bragging rights.

Though, abduction and ransom aren’t beyond the pale. Were the sector any too much worse, he’d be more worried about both. Especially if offered by another mystical prodigy, who has both on his mind and the desperation to risk tangling with a peer of Thalrassian’s caliber.

_Where the desperate congregate, new and unprecedented powers will always gather and flourish_, Thalrassian’s late mentor and surrogate father, Professor Gereon Alexius, used to muse with some frustration. Then, he’d caution Thalrassian, and Thalrassian’s best friend . . . Alexius’s only son, [Felix](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656723/), to: _Be wary of time spent among those with too much unquestioned power. For those with _no power_ but that which they can beg, borrow, steal, and take—with nothing to lose but their lives and everything to gain—will always be drawn to the former. To even a momentarily undefended throat. And neither party will hesitate to use you as human-leverage or human-shield._

Alexius’s own death, at the hands of the traitor, Sethius Amladaris—the so-called “Conductor of Silence,” known as _Corypheus_ by the world and even Minrathous at large—had been sure-proof of that. The Alexius power and fortune had declined dramatically with the professor’s death and the sullying of his name and reputation, as part of Amladaris’s insane attempts at national and international recruitment, and coups d’etat.

In the years since the Professor’s vindication, the restoration of the family name had hardly translated to the return of a fraction of the old Alexius power and fortune. The last scions of the family lived in the last Alexius holding in Minrathous—and in the entire Imperium, for that matter[: a modest townhouse not too terribly far](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656796/) from the [Upper and Lower Senate Houses, and various Collegia](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656629/) including those scions’ place of employ.

And even that holding had been initially lost until Thalrassian had made his first modest, non-family-related fortune. He’d purchased the townhouse with most of its original furnishings from the holder of the deed for a relative pittance—she’d been unable to move the gorgeous, old brick building for years because of the tarnish that still tended to cling to the Alexius name.

Upon gifting the townhouse to his best friends—newlyweds, at the time, and soon-to-be parents—after rounds of teary-eyed hugs, Felix had nonchalantly remarked that not only would it be wonderful to live in a familiar and beloved place once more, but that his father would have been thrilled to know that his greatest student would, of course, be moving into [his mentor’s rooms, and making use of his laboratory, personal library, and study](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656645/) on the second floor of said townhouse.

Thalrassian—who’d been living in one of the small suites above his shop for some time at that point—had been too flustered and moved and _overjoyed_ to do anything but accept that offer with another round of hugs and, this time, tears of gratitude and affection for his friends.

His _family_.

That had been nearly two blessedly happy, homey years ago. Life has been remarkably sweet and easy since then—a beautiful routine Thalrassian has treasured with as much mindfulness and gratitude as he can. Even in just the past few years, he’s gone from being a family-less outcast and recovering drunkard with a fledgling business and little else to his name . . . to being _the_ Dr. D. P. Thalrassian, Inventor and Purveyor of Lyrium-Fueled and Clockwork Contrivances Most Unique . . . Co-Owner of [_Garrett & Thalrassian’s Emporia of Mystica and Arcana, Both Fine and Respectable_.](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963917926/)

And, most importantly and happily, he is the bemused, but _proud_ uncle and godfather of the precocious, _adorable_—and _surely_ mystically prodigious—[Calista Ligeia Arida Alexius](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963917662/).

Earlier this very evening, Thalrassian’s best friends had gone teary-eyed when he’d had offered to pay for his niece’s first gauntlet—they’d not already had someone in mind to do the crafting—the services of the _sine qua non_ mystical designer, craftsman, artisan, and artificer he’s ever personally known and worked with.

His offer had been quickly and warmly accepted.

Supper and afters had been most joyous and light-hearted affairs, until the knock at the front door.

Felix had answered, despite his wife’s and Thalrassian’s suggestions to not bother. Then, a minute later, had wandered back into the small salon, reading at what had appeared to be a small note. He’d absently kissed his mildly curious wife and his drowsing daughter on their crowns, then brought the note to Thalrassian, his face questioning and concerned. Thalrassian—savoring the last of his evening brandy _and_ the way the well-tended fire kept early spring’s chill at bay—had sighed and ruefully taken the scrap of creased paper.

He’d not recognized the tiny, straggling print, but the message itself had patently suggested his troubled and troublesome business partner and friend:

** _The Spurned Chevalier, quarter of midnight. T. I. Bull of Orlais. Come alone. MHG._ **

So, he now finds himself lost in one of Minrathous’s many dank, depressing southeastern neighborhoods, midway between suburbs and city-center. Here at the behest of his business partner and old friend—the one without whom he’d have surely been dead the better part of seven years ago, and whom he’d trust with more than his _life_.

Of course, said friend would be far more familiar with and less wary of such an area than Thalrassian, and not only because of firsthand familiarity of it. No, his friend is familiar with _many_ such areas in many such _cities_, from Seheron and Minrathous and throughout the Imperium, as well as abroad: Llomeryn, Antiva City, Cumberland, Kirkwall, Val Royeaux _and_ Halamshiral, and most recently an unfortunately lengthy sojourn in frosty Ferelden’s capital of Denerim.

Though, the brief missive delivered earlier in the evening suggests his well-traveled associate is no longer quite so far afield as Denerim—“seeing to unfinished business,” as he’d claimed just before boarding a steamer-ship (no airships for _him_) some months ago.

He is, perhaps, back in Minrathous at last . . . if not much ahead of his cryptic note. And the reason why Thalrassian’s been directed to meet this T. I. Bull, in such a suspect part of the city—rather than simply meeting his business partner at said business or his partner’s living quarter above the shop—is a mystery, indeed.

Nevertheless, at the request of that directive, Thalrassian makes his way to the sector that houses this pub, this . . . _The Spurned Chevalier_. Surreptitious asking around all evening has gotten him this far, but he’s yet to find the place. He has no knowledge of the establishment and doesn’t remember having heard the name from his own days of frequenting such places.

Thalrassian rather resents spending his evening on this annoying and unexplained errand by his friend and erstwhile business partner. And assuming he can even _find_ this pub, he will certainly have quite a lot to ask this _Messere_ Bull. Not to mention, eventually ask the man who’s decided their paths needed to cross, in the first place. Certainly, Thalrassian has never spared that man the sharper side of his wit or tongue.

And after tonight, if _anyone_ has surely earned some _extra Thalrassian-_sharpness, it’s _Malcolm H. Garrett_ . . .

Of course, he probably _won’t_ receive as much as he might have, otherwise. Thalrassian not only has a ridiculous soft spot for the man, but he also sees no point in even temporarily alienating the finest mystical craftsman he knows. And certainly _not_ prior to that craftsman designing and crafting the formative gauntlet—a simple thing that’s little more than a bracelet with extensions that go up to and around the bases of the first two fingers, but still integral to a child’s developing _mystical identity_, for all that—of the person he adores more than his heart can stand, in some moments.

Grime-gray, wet cobblestones echo with his firm footsteps and in its gauntlet, his left hand feels clammy-restless, indeed. The reinforced power _leys_ that run distilled lyrium to and from throughout the device seem to pulse, cool and dry, against the skin of his hand, wrist, and forearm.

“Maker’s well-earned _exasperation_, Malcolm,” he mutters under his breath, more irritated and put-out than unnerved, as he keeps his pace steady and rounds a sharp turn of building. “What’ve you dragged me into, this time—other than _more_ trouble I don’t need?”

Thalrassian hardly expects a reply to that grousing, so when he gets one, his cane—held firmly in his gloved right hand, but with the appearance of relaxed negligence—drops as he’s snatched and yanked around the corner of building and down an especially shadowy side street. His top hat quickly follows suit and is, also, lost to Thalrassian’s tale forever.

He immediately starts drawing mana and sketching a defensive glyph in his mind’s eye. But before he can bring his gauntlet up to defend himself, he’s grabbed in a great, hulking hold which, for all its quelling strength, feels controlled and precise. One gigantic hand captures then pins his gauntlet-arm to his torso and closes around his bunched fist, before he can release it and the drawn mana . . . and finish defending himself with a glyph of sleep or paralysis. The man’s other enormous arm does the double duty of pinning Thalrassian’s flailing right arm to his torso while his hand clamps over Thalrassian’s mouth.

Several backward-aimed kicks tell Thalrassian that his accoster’s shins and knees, at the very least, are girded. By hide or leather schynbalds . . . or even full greaves and poleyns to shield the entire calf and knee against kicks, jabs, and slashes. From the flexible-tough feel of the arms caging him, the man’s also wearing full vambraces—upper and lower cannon.

The defenses and armor of a trained and experienced soldier, then. One who’s seen his share of fierce battle and, even in this petty criminal endeavor, takes every appropriate precaution. And though sensible precautions against a gauntlet-wielding mystic would call for full armor and more defenses, besides, the man has clearly given thought to balancing what he’d need to be protected . . . and what he’d need to be stealthy and quick.

That . . . is instantly disheartening to Thalrassian for several reasons.

With Thalrassian secured, the large man rumbles out a word Thalrassian doesn’t understand. What he _does_ understand, however, is a silent, gently soughing release of _mana_ . . . of mystical power, which expands, then contracts to wrap around himself and the giant. Then expands. Then contracts.

The origin and center of this power, as shadowy-chilly as a crescent moon-night, seems to be from behind Thalrassian’s head—literally from the center of his captor’s chest. It steadily emanates that cool, quiet power in rhythmic pulses. Quite different from the slow, steady flow which normally implies a device rather than the living, cognizant focus and cycling of something that exists and _persists_ in beats, and pulses of heart and brain.

A mystical talisman, then—a strange one. And powerful one. Thalrassian is unfamiliar with the tenor and taste of this style of mystical feat, but he can tell from the feel of it that it’s not actively obscuring the mystica with which he _is_ familiar. This area-of-effect casting is doing some sort of _indirect_ mischief: subtle and not as easy to combat or parse.

Almost as if it _runs closely parallel_ to common forms of mystica, yet . . . is not quite the same in some small, but integral way. Drawn from the same source, of course, as all mystica. But with the relationship ending upon that initial syphoning. And if the mystica with which Thalrassian is familiar tastes and feels of earth and metal, fire and incense, whatever form of mystica he senses from the giant’s talisman tastes and feels of moonlight and ozone. Of water and _green_.

Perhaps, this is no garden-variety crime-of-opportunity. Perhaps, this miscreant waylaying Thalrassian—surely a Vashoth mercenary or hire-thug, for his ludicrous size, strength, and apparent stamina—means Thalrassian focused ill beyond anything so prosaic as coin or some other material ransom.

Thalrassian doesn’t bother with further struggling—against a Vashoth [Qunari](https://66.media.tumblr.com/d8ef4cf5dcc684c4120352d0ef14216d/tumblr_inline_orzdld2mF81t2kaxl_500.png), one who’s easily seven feet tall, he’ll not be breaking free through main-force. Or through mystical force, without an element of surprise the kidnapper has clearly anticipated, by his continued grip of Thalrassian’s gauntleted fist.

Frankly, the brute holding him so immobile has such a crushing grip on Thalrassian’s left hand and the Lady Bethany, Thalrassian truly worries more for his irreplaceable _gauntlet_. Created by the very man for whom he’s been risking his neck in this impoverished, labyrinthine warren . . . the man whose faith and kindness and _patience_ hadn’t redeemed Thalrassian, so much as helped him to redeem himself.

Thoughts of Malcolm, as always, work to calm Thalrassian and center him . . . to still even his slight and minor flailing, though it’s already tapering. He does his best to breathe evenly, despite the huge hand silencing him—finally marking and wondering at the hand covering only his mouth and not his _nose_, too, while not significantly restricting his breathing.

He’s _not_ to be rendered safely unconscious—or safely dead—as he’s hauled off to . . . wherever this mercenary behemoth means to take him.

And said mercenary behemoth _certainly_ means to take him _somewhere_. As indicated by the man suddenly hoisting Thalrassian clean-off his bloody feet and—while holding Thalrassian tighter to a massive chest that’s bare, but for the talisman—striding with fearless, but economic purpose, deeper into this particular neighborhood of side streets.

The giant—who looms even with Thalrassian hoisted up so high, that the abductor’s warm breath is a soft, steady gust on Thalrassian’s ear and cheek—makes not a sound, but for the near-silence of his passage through the streets. Thalrassian does nothing to mitigate that, does not struggle . . . merely settles against the strategically armored malfeasor.

His struggles, were they noticed in this neighborhood—and in his clothes and with _his gauntlet_—would likely bring him nothing resembling help or even a concerned bystander.

But there’s a decent chance that whatever this brute wants (or whatever _whomever he works for_ wants), Thalrassian can secure his own freedom by accommodating that demand with a minimum of bother, bruising, or bleeding. With _bargaining_, should the element of surprise and ruthlessness not offer an opportune moment . . . and should he be allowed to bargain on his own behalf.

If not, well . . . he could do worse than to lull his abductor into thinking mindless fright has cowed him to stillness. Has corralled him from his reason and ability to play the waiting game and strategize while doing so.

Brutes—it has often and accurately been observed—even the wary and wily ones, aren’t known for their determination, vigilance, and sheer bloody-minded _willfulness_ in the face of opposition that is clever-cold at strategizing, prodigiously talented at his chosen offensives and defensives, and unflinchingly merciless at eradicating any and all threats.

Along with his fierce intellect, keen observational skills, and scathing manner, Dr. D. P. Thalrassian is becoming _quite_ well known for the former two.

Those who are familiar with that _third_ trait, as it manifests from him on occasion, are quite content to not speak of it to others or to the man, himself, for fear of further . . . demonstrations of its truth and efficacy.

#

Thalrassian quite loses track of time and direction—of place, as the giant carries him quickly onward in rambling, recursive circles and meandering backtracking meant to discombobulate and disorient. It isn’t long before Thalrassian gives up trying to keep track of turns and landmarks.

Being lost is no longer his chief concern.

From the dark, decrepit neighborhood in which Thalrassian had been turned-around, he’s brought to a different neighborhood altogether. One that’s only slightly better lit, but better maintained, and frequently peopled. And those people have the weary, inward-focused attention that seems to be prevalent in working-poor neighborhoods. Especially when the hour is fast-approaching-midnight.

His abductor steers clear of main thoroughfares and boulevards, such as they are in this sector. He keeps entirely to side streets and alleys, and they pass no one but those so mired in their own concerns and troubles that even the giant’s massive bulk doesn’t draw their gaze (willingly or not), let alone that bulk plus the addition of another grown man, fully hoisted and being carried hence.

But it’s as likely down to Thalrassian’s occasionally and unpredictably _dashed_ luck as to anything that they encounter no one who seems to mark their presence and oddness. Even after what feels like hours of travel—but is likely less than a quarter of one hour—held up in the giant’s strong, huge arms, and despite the eldritch-blue lighting of a few tall, far-spaced, city-supplied mana-gaslamps throwing them both into clear and obvious relief . . . _no one_ looks at them.

In fact . . . it’s more than that. It’s really as if . . . no one actually is _noticing them_, to look or avoid looking. Thalrassian had been despairing that it’d seemed almost as if this brute had not only plotted this particular route but had contrived to have it cleared in advance of all who might stymie the carrying out of his plan.

But now . . . now, he has cause to recall the slow, steady-cool pulse of mana from the talisman pressing between his cloaked back and the giant’s bare chest. The man’s slow, steady-strong heartbeat seems to reverberate in time with the talisman. Or, it with his heartbeat.

The next person to pass them is an older, harried-looking, powerfully built _dwarva_ woman with graying auburn hair in a messy bun and a face that’s a roadmap of scars, lines, and tattoos. She’s dressed in the blue and gray workshirt and overalls of a city-employed engineer, and is negligently carrying a small mana-lamp and a workhammer far larger than anything Thalrassian could easily lift. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, despite her air of general alacrity.

She not only doesn’t look their way; she behaves and reacts as if _there’s no one there to behave for or react to_. Nothing to _notice_, besides more dark, more dank, and more depressing.

Whatever she sees or senses in her path, it’s nothing so remarkable as the two people who _are there_. It is, perhaps, _nothing at all_ that she sees, but the street, the night air, and her current troubles.

And why would anyone look at, stare at, or take special notice of _those first two_?

Thalrassian doesn’t spook easily, but he finds himself . . . greatly uneased by this entire situation—more so than it might normally warrant. He’s been abducted before, of course—before _and_ after having disavowed all ties with the Pavus family, as well as repudiating the _powerful_ Pavus name—but the one and only time he hadn’t been able to free himself of an abductor had been the time his future friend and associate, one Malcolm H. Garrett, had done so.

(Thalrassian _might_ have done it by himself, without Malcolm’s aid, had he not been so abominably, falling-down drunk at the time.)

This abduction feels, in so many ways—large and small—_different_ than the others. The same, but different, underneath, from method to motivation. Tabulating these differences soon fosters a spiraling sensation quite akin to panic in Thalrassian. The first he’s felt of that life-taker emotion since Sethius Amladaris’s lieutenant had held himself and Felix hostage, in the wake of his Gereon’s then-unsolved murder.

_That_ had, thankfully and unlike most of Amladaris’s schemes, gone opposite to plan. With the Conductor’s energies mostly spread out across Southern Thedas at that point, rather than simply in the Imperium, [the aforementioned lieutenant](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963657596/)—already questioning her role under his command and as part of his ethos, had been won over by dear, earnest, _forgiving_ Felix and his gentle, but passionate and methodical reasoning.

By the time Amladaris, the monstrous old mystic, had been put down for good—far south of the Imperium . . . in _Orlais_, of all places—Professors Felix and [Calpernia Alexius](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963657252/) had been happily married for over a year and expecting their first child.

And _that’s_ what does it—what knocks Thalrassian out of his, yes, somewhat panicked brooding and megrims. Thoughts of his precious Geia’s sweet, smiling face. Her round, bright eyes, and her tiny, sticky hands reaching out for him in the excited-_perfect_ moments before he picks her up for hugs and kisses . . . and surprisingly intelligible and _intelligent_ chitchat that’s better than what he gets at most social gatherings and outings with his peers. Watching over such a darling, miraculous sprite while she sleeps or using minor mystica to interest, amuse, and inspire her . . . these things banish Thalrassian’s stymied anxiety. Turn it into determination and grim resolution to do _whatever_ it takes to get back to his life—_his life that he built brick by brick over years and with great pains, and loves beyond all reasoning_.

To the best friends who worry over him and the niece who squeals _Unc’ Dor’ween_! whenever she sees him, as if declaiming the greatest joy of her soul to the wide world.

To his business and his business partner . . . his good friend, Malcolm, who will _certainly_ hear of this ridiculousness ad nauseam and at volume . . . after a rather long and unapologetically tight embrace.

Felix and Cal deserve _more_ than adjunct professorships at a middling Collegium. Dear, angelic Geia deserves . . . _the world_—as much of it as catches her eye and delights her. And Malcolm, too, deserves far more than life has ever been good enough to give him, Thalrassian has long suspected. (It probably has, in fact, _taken_ far more than anyone so well-meaning and kind could deserve, just going off the haunted, melancholy look in Malcolm’s far-too-aged gaze.)

And even besides those close, treasured few, there are and will be so many others who need _Dr. D. P. Thalrassian_ and his skillset. There are injustices not merely in the lives of his nearest and dearest, but in the larger community and in _the Imperium_ that he would see righted before eventually taking his earned place at the Maker’s side. There are people who need the things _only_ a mystic and inventor like Thalrassian can, if sometimes laboriously, make happen with some mana and ingenuity.

He _will not_ suffer himself to be sundered from these cherished, sacred responsibilities.

Thanks to his once-again bolstered focus and willpower, Thalrassian’s begun taking his surroundings in with keener and renewed interest. By the cool, blue glow of lyrium-gas, these streets and the relative few traveling them are still dim and haunted. _Harrowed_, as if in preparation for some great, midnight battle. The streets, themselves, smell faintly and equally of rain and refuse. Of damp brick and wood. The people smell of sweat, weariness, and desperation, from what Thalrassian can catch, over _his kidnapper’s_ strangely pleasant, soothing-stimulating scent: cardamom oil and anise, iron and leather . . . woodsmoke and the air after a lightning-strike. . . .

(‘Twould be a _compelling_ combination, were Thalrassian not so determined to see it subdued and restrained, and forced to answer his questions by hook or by crook.)

On his hand and arm, his gauntlet is still cool—at least, on the surface not touching his skin, he knows. His most powerful means of self-rescue (after his remarkable will and agile mind) will not be giving away his readiness to fight for the life he loves and for which he has striven so single-mindedly. Even the focus-stone of his gauntlet, at palm’s center, is recumbent and cool.

But, like Thalrassian at his most dangerous, the Lady Bethany and its focus-stone _are_ _ready_. Patient, of course. And never _hasty_, Maker forfend. But the lack of haste is that of a prowling lion, _not_ a helpless lamb.

Thalrassian imagines that whatever his move, when the moment comes, it’ll have to be big and destructive—the sort of thing that requires most, if not all the lyrium in his gauntlet’s topped-off reservoir. And said reservoir is more capacious than most, thanks to Malcolm’s advanced design. The Lady Bethany is streamlined, and rather spare-seeming and basic until one is fueling it.

Or wearing it.

Or . . . _wielding it_.

As Thalrassian is prepared and determined to do, to save his own life and the lives that depend on him in even small ways.

And if wielding the Lady decisively means putting down some unfortunate kidnapper—and perhaps leveling several city streets or an entire neighborhood in the process—it isn’t if Thalrassian’s sleep over the past decade and more has been so charmed and restful, anyway.

#

It seems mere moments after the bolstering of himself and his objective, that some small, quiet instinct in him senses his moment might be nearing. The moment in which he can turn this situation from his increasingly likely death to perhaps a _very_ near-miss.

This instinct is borne out when suddenly, the giant steps quickly around the turn of a side street into a single egress alley. But not quick enough to have drawn notice, had they not already been rendered effectively invisible by the strange talisman still beating cool between Thalrassian’s shoulder-blades and fairly humming with its own power and the giant’s heartbeat.

Once in the deeper shadows beyond the alley-entrance, the kidnapper’s stride slows—he seems to almost relax as he moves easily from shadow-pool to shadow-pool . . . himself, still and silent as the grave, aside from his economical motility.

_It’s now or never_, Thalrassian accepts, channeling every ounce of his will and narrowing his focus as best he can, in preparation of the _precise_ _moment_ his captor relaxes further or slips. Thalrassian _will not_ even contemplate such an opportune moment not presenting itself in the very immediate future.

_Felix’s fond and old-souled smiles, Cal’s verbal sparring, the unadulterated love in Geia’s hazel eyes,_ Thalrassian reminds himself, as yearning as any true lover and as ruthless and cold as grim death._ The unwavering faith, trust, and confidence Malcolm’s never hesitated to show me from the very hour of our first meeting . . . I _will_ get out of this mess whole and hale, and never be taken so easily again. Even if I must flatten this entire sector as an example._

As if in compliance and reassurance, the slight, warming tingle of silverite alloy against his skin lets Thalrassian know Lady Bethany’s fuel chambers are ready, the reservoirs on stand-by, and the ley-lines that shuttle the liquid lyrium to the glove and focus are primed.

All that’s needed is Thalrassian’s focused and applied will.

Lady Bethany is _ready_, if _Thalrassian_ is.

Closing his eyes tight and drawing in a slow, deep breath through his nose and above his kidnapper’s restraining hand, he mentally draws a Glyph of Paralysis in his mind’s eye. His long- and well-trained will captures the glyph—makes it his entire focus and desire. Reinforces it with every fiber of mana and will-power—of passion and resolve—at his disposal. Willing each forceful and stark line of it to glow a silvery eldritch-blue, like the refined liquid lyrium in Lady Bethany’s waiting reservoirs.

The metal of the gauntlet—the side against his skin—has warmed somewhat, in response not only to Thalrassian’s marshalled and applied will, but also in response to his accelerated heart-rate and pulse. Thalrassian half-expects his abductor to render him unconscious, at last, because despite the relative calm of mind and even body, surely any increase in pulse would alert the man that something is up.

But, as they near the wall at the back of the single-egress alley, Thalrassian’s abductor seems to not notice his elevated heartrate—perhaps Thalrassian’s clothing muffles that beat, in the places where the abductor’s skin contacts his?—or even Thalrassian’s slight tensing in his arms. He merely stops. Then, he stands there . . . staring.

At the dead-end wall.

And he keeps staring. For a small eternity, it feels like. Thalrassian holds his focus, however, and the glowing glyph in his mind. He’s ready to shunt his focus and will down to his gauntlet the moment his abductor loosens that ridiculously tight grip enough that Thalrassian can open his hand a bit. . . .

And _Lady Bethany_ can do what she was so _cunningly_ crafted, exceptionally engineered, and deceptively designed (sparer and smaller in appearance than most gauntlets) to do, to impressive effect.

#

“In nature, often the most beautiful things are the deadliest,” Malcolm had said early in the evening on which he’d presented Thalrassian with the most unique gauntlet he’d likely ever own. Then he’d quirked a smirk that’d turned into a rarely seen grin. One that’d transformed the man’s handsome, friendly face into a boyish one.

For that moment, Thalrassian had been even more intensely on the cusp of falling irrevocably head-over-heels in love with his friend and soon-to-be business partner. With this man who’d saved and rerouted his life, and shown him through example that even the newly credentialed Dr. D. P. Thalrassian was someone to be trusted and relied upon.

Malcolm, unaware of his younger friend and protégé’s emotional state of awe, yearning, and glorious melancholy—blissfully unaware—had stood from his overstuffed, ridiculously comfortable chair: the left of a pair sat before the small fireplace in [Malcolm’s study](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/73324300171152785/). A fireplace which he _always_ kept burning.

He’d looked fine and fanciable, indeed, in his simple evening-wear of plain, dark trousers, pinstriped red and gray waistcoat, and a linen shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled, revealing strong forearms. The left forearm was several shades paler from the near-constant wearing of his various gauntlets.

Thalrassian had stared and yearned at Malcolm’s broad, strong shoulders and back, his well-toned arse and thighs, and swallowed as the older man retrieved a latched mahogany box from the mantle.

By the time Malcolm—having lingered over the box as if it or something contained within was precious—had sighed and turned back to Thalrassian, the younger man had averted his hungering gaze and finished his formerly untouched brandy at speed, then placed the snifter on his chair’s small, accompanying side-table.

Said brandy had _not_ been the reason for his deeply flushed face.

“If I’ve learnt aught-else of design and engineering in recent years, my friend, I’ve learnt that the machines and devices that are most _effective_ cleave closely to Nature’s own rationale and design. That said,” Malcolm had added wryly, that grin returning, only to turn back into a devilish and dangerous smirk. The older mystic’s unremarkable Southern Marches-accent had also slipped into something far _more_ . . . _southern_-sounding: a _Ferelden_ accent. Thalrassian had only rarely heard examples of such, living so far north of that near-mythic land of winter and wolves, bears and barbarians. “I’ll not let _you,_ my dear colleague, march into potential battle with less than the absolute best—and the [Lady Bethany](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963662654/) _is that_, never fear.”

So saying, Malcolm had approached Thalrassian, offering the box. When Thalrassian, nonplussed, had accepted it, Malcolm had undone the latch and opened the lid.

Thalrassian had gasped at what lay within and nearly dropped both box and contents.

Then, running on the instantaneous instinct to prevent such a thing happening to the most beautiful and cunning device he’d ever seen, he’d slipped out of the right overstuffed chair—he’d always had a sense that that chair had been meant for _someone who was not him_ to sit in it, anyway—and to his knees, placing the mahogany box on one of Malcolm’s many plush, Rivaini rugs.

With shaking, reverent hands, he’d removed the gauntlet of leather, viridium-alloy, brass, and copper from its box. It was cool to the touch, yet seemed vibrant, nonetheless. Turning it palm-up revealed a central focus of [clear, oval-cut fire opal the size of a walnut and the color of the _sunniest_ gradations of golden, summer sunlight](https://cdn.thisiswhyimbroke.com/images/sunset-fire-opal.jpg). It was surrounded by three filbert-sized quartz-stones and two yellow topaz: trilliant-cut and one for each finger and the thumb of the gauntlet.

“She’s got a lyrium reservoir made of folded viridium-silverite and almost _twice_ the volume you’d find on a gauntlet of comparable size. But designed to very much hide that fact. Flexible but reinforced arterial _leys_ of the same, to shuttle lyrium throughout the device _and_ ground the massive amounts of power that can be channeled through the gauntlet. I’ve also outfitted her with several thrice-tempered viridium-aurum power-sinks to keep feedback and waste-mana from cooking your arm. You’ll never burn out using her, and neither will she burn out in your service.” Malcolm had nodded with deep satisfaction and pride as Thalrassian had put the gauntlet on—with more than a little awe and anticipation, and half in a trance.

Both art and armament, the gauntlet had fit perfectly and comfortably and had been slightly warm around his hand and arm.

“I know your recent gauntlets have featured focus-stones of cooler profile and effect—sapphire and amethyst, and such,” Malcolm had gone on with clearly measured words, “but considering your affinity for fire-related spells and mystica, as well as your natural, er . . . propensity for and skill at, ah. . . .”

“Necromancy,” Thalrassian had murmured, distracted and, as had become increasingly common, unbothered by his talent for summoning, interacting with, and manipulating the dead and disembodied. “I’m quite aware of that propensity, Malcolm. No need to soft-pedal established fact.”

“Yes. You’re quite right, aren’t you?” When Thalrassian had finally looked up from his new gauntlet, Malcolm had been smiling an amused, but bemused and approving smile. “There are few things in the world more heartening than a fiery-souled mystic, with a head full of cool reason and a heart full of warm empathy to balance it. Indeed,” he’d chuckled, both sad and relieved, “the original Bethany is doubtlessly smiling down on you. And laughing at me, as I so often gave her cause to do.”

Frowning up at Malcolm, Thalrassian—who’d rarely had the courage to probe Malcolm’s past not for fear of disillusionment, but fear of hurting one of his most treasured friends by recalling doubtlessly devastating hardships in his life—had dared to venture: “The _original_ Bethany?”

“[My . . . little sister. Bethany](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/763008361855239734/).” He’d smiled, his dark eyes shining and brimming with emotion. “The baby of our family—though our brother, Carver, was her twin, and only older by minutes.” Malcolm had actually _laughed_. “All the difference in the world, to hear _him_ tell it. But she was the heart and soul of my family. All the warmth and life of it. Took after our father, in that wise. When _he_ died . . . _Bethany_ became our center. _Our heart_. Fierce and fiery when it counted, but always . . . _always_ warm. Always _wise_. And . . . always kind.

“Our Bethany. . . .” despite the tears suddenly rolling down his cheeks, Malcolm had grinned. “You remind me of her. The two of you have _that same heart_. And I think she’d be pleased and _honored_ to see her namesake defend such a worthy and _kindred_ spirit as yours.”

For nearly one whole, speechless minute, Thalrassian hadn’t even been able to close his mouth, let alone make it do something useful, such as shape actual words. Then, when Malcolm’s smile had softened and faded, and the man, himself, had sat heavily in his left chair and stared off into the cheery fire, Thalrassian had finally found his voice. “Malcolm, I. . . .”

Tears had even welled up in his eyes, too, as his heart—a _Bethany_-heart, apparently—had brimmed and overflowed with gratitude and love for Malcolm Garrett. He’d drawn-in a shaking breath that’d ached _so keenly_, but also left him feeling impossibly golden and good.

The Lady Bethany had been cool to the touch, but warm on his arm . . . and glowing with such a fierce, but mellow gleam. And when Thalrassian had flexed his fingers in the gauntlet, a thrill of near-physical pleasure and exhilaration had raced through him. He’d finally looked up again to find Malcolm smiling at him with his usual weary fondness. “I won’t insult you by offering material remuneration for this priceless gift, but . . . is there _any_ way I can appropriately thank you, Malcolm? _Any way, at all?_”

Thalrassian had meant that question with every fiber of his being, and with a heart full of shining hopes he’d never yet allowed himself to fully contemplate or even suspect.

With the innocence of First Love riding him and driving him, in that moment, had Malcolm Garrett understood and accepted the fullness of that unreserved and limitless offer . . . he would have owned Thalrassian, heart and soul, forever.

And, perhaps, Malcolm _had_ understood. Perhaps he’d purposely overlooked Thalrassian’s declaration as naïve or insincere. Or, perhaps, the declaration and Thalrassian had been found wanting and gone unwanted. For Malcolm had turned back to the fire and shrugged with familiar self-deprecation. But not before Thalrassian had seen the beginning of the shift from fond smile to pained grimace.

“Thank me by doing whatever it takes to stay alive. If Lady Bethany helps with that, I’m satisfied. And if you find or have ideas for some way to improve her, I’ll happily see what can be done. Only. . . .” he’d paused, sighing and looking down at his side-table, where lay his own gauntlet. Malcolm’d had several, even back then. [The one he’d been wearing that evening](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963662634/) had been specially designed and calibrated by Malcolm for dexterity and precision during mystical smithing and devising. “There . . . comes a time when a man gets bloody _tired_ of losing good friends. Good family. _Good people_. And _I_ reached that point so long ago, now, I could no longer see it even if I looked over my shoulder for half a fortnight! So, now that I’ve the power and know-how to keep such loss from happening quite so easily and often . . . well. I may be _years_ too late to save . . . so many. So many. But Lady Bethany will keep _you_ safe and help you make _your enemies_ much less so, at your discretion. Or, as my brother, [Carver](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963917165/), would say . . . _if they try to have a go, she’ll let you shit ‘em up, right proper_. And that’s a guarantee, or my name isn’t _Garrett_.”

He’d met Thalrassian’s gaze with a somber, worried, brow-furrowed one, and dredged up another smile, but limp and iffy. “Thank me by staying alive, my friend. No matter what. That’s all I can ask and with which I can content myself.”

Gently knocked back—if, indeed, he had been—yet pulled closer, somehow . . . simultaneously rebuffed and reassured, Thalrassian had nodded and got to his feet. He’d ignored the ache in his gone-gray heart and the prickling behind his eyes . . . but he’d also taken his friend and mentor’s advice about doing his best to stay alive and thriving. For the most part.

And Malcolm _had_ been right about Lady Bethany—_of course_, he had. Thalrassian has, in the years since, not found a better general use _or_ dueling gauntlet. Nor even a gauntlet with more facile power-sinks while still maintaining fuel- and power-tanks of such capacious volume. Thalrassian doubts he will _ever_ find all those things in any gauntlet other than Lady Bethany—not even close.

For, say what one will about Malcolm-bloody-Garrett—and Thalrassian _frequently_ does . . . the man can be _at least_ as pigheaded and intractable as he is kind and generous—he’s a nonpareil mystical craftsman and arcane-artisan.

A dear, devoted friend and defender. . . .

A _gentleman_ . . . and a _champion_.

#

_I could certainly do with a bit of Malcolm’s champion side, right now,_ Thalrassian laments with rather cavalier and typical gallows’ humor. _Rather, that decidedly _not_-champion side I see peering out of his eyes when he’s feeling especially bloody-minded or losing badly at Wicked Grace._

Then he re-quiets his mind and narrows his focus—sharpens it like an arrow. Around his hand, wrist, and forearm, the Bethany is growing slowly, but steadily warmer, as Thalrassian’s barely corralled will throbs and is infused with lyrium, to trickle into the gauntlet’s receptors as mana. She waits to be used to life-altering—life-_taking_ effect.

Thalrassian’s abductor grumbles—the first vocalization he’s made since activating the talisman not half an hour ago. Now that Thalrassian’s in a state to notice it, the man’s low, marrow-churning voice is a bit of a shock, for some reason. Though not enough to throw Thalrassian even slightly.

The giant shifts a bit to kick the wall with an unsurprisingly armored foot. But what catches Thalrassian’s winnowed attention and successfully divides it—however unevenly—is the strangely . . . porous sort of chunking _clang_, when the toe of the man’s sabaton impacts the wall.

As of metal impacting solid wood, rather than chipping off a bit of crumbling, old brick.

But Thalrassian’s focus is utterly shattered—scattered—when his captor suddenly speaks. Just slightly louder than, perhaps, intimate conversation might warrant, but certainly not loudly. Not even an outdoors-voice, even.

“Hey—c’mon, Apple-[Krem](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963657058/)-Cake? Whadja do? Fall asleep at the switch? Literally?”

He says this, does Thalrassian’s kidnapper. In that rousing-disruptive _voice_. . . .

. . . to the blank wall standing a foot away from them.

_Well, this is unexpected, _Thalrassian thinks, unable to repress a huff of inexplicable annoyance and disappointment.

Clearly, his abductor, for all his cunning and stealth, is mad.

Disappointing, yes . . . and far from comforting, considering this additional level of unpredictability is paired with the aforementioned cunning and stealth of a trained soldier.

Genuinely spooked, again, Thalrassian begins to rally his will once more and recast his glyph. This new awareness that his captor is a madman—and such are notoriously impossible to bargain or reason with—has shaken him enough that holding the glyph and his will, and charging the former while not prematurely releasing the latter into his gauntlet is only slightly easier than herding cats.

And all his effort is, for the second time in less than one minute, blown away by a voice speaking—but a different one. One coming from directly in front of him . . . from _within the wall_.

Or behind it.

“Gotta be sure you’re _you_, Chief, don’t I?” it asks, playful, androgynous, and thick with pretend-sincerity and a provincial, working-class Imperial accent. Itself, flavored with what sounds like hints of several far-flung places. “What’s the pass-phrase, then?”

“_You’re fired_,” Thalrassian’s abductor replies without hesitation and in a tone rich with repressed, but wry amusement.

After a beat, a throat is cleared and . . . the grime-gray stone of the wall begins to sough and moan, _grate and crackle_.

It begins to crack open.

After the first several seconds of wince-worthy grating, the sound quickly tapers to a low sound that’s more stone brushing on stone than stone grating on stone. The bricks that have shifted out of their place seem to push forward toward Thalrassian—_outward_. Then . . . _side_-wards. To Thalrassian’s left. And with almost total silence, as if the section of wall—about the width of three average people standing side by side and the height of perhaps slightly shorter than Thalrassian’s abductor—is moving on greased wheels, it slides smoothly and quickly to the side, revealing a barely-lit entryway and a stone staircase curving downward.

Thalrassian barely notes that the dimness of the entryway and the small antechamber just beyond as the giant strides through that entryway without hesitation. The stone stairwell opening beyond it seems to be far better lit than that entryway or alley, with wall-mounted lamps starting at about two and one-half meters down the well. Below any reasonable sight-level for the wall-door, of course, so that should even one brick fall out of the door, no iota of light would spill out and give the entrance away.

Those lamps are, also, _not_ lit by Minrathous’s mana-pool, but by _chemical or alchemical fuel_, of some sort. The flames burn yellow-orange rather than blue-white or blue-green.

If that precaution extends to other fuels used in this place, then the whole place is likely off the mana-grid generated by the Mysterium, and which powers all public utilities and most private ones, as well.

_If only Felix, amateur alchemist Felix, were here to appreciate this. And to help me battle free, of course_, Thalrassian thinks sardonically, wistfully. Though, much as he loves Felix, he senses a better person to help him battle his way out of nearly anything, would be Calpernia. Or Malcolm.

In a revelatory flash, he suddenly wonders if his abduction has anything to do with Malcolm’s note. If . . . the note had been faked to draw him from the safety of his home and stomping grounds, to a place where few would be likely to intercede on his behalf, were his abduction to be witnessed.

What if someone had used Thalrassian’s loyalty to Malcolm to lure him here, or—far worse, still—what if they’d somehow _captured Malcolm and used him to lure Thalrassian here_?

_What if_—

Then, Thalrassian turns his mind to glyphs and focusing, yet again, unwilling to even consider _the worst_ possibility of all.

Though, realizing that betrayal is in the realm of possibility, if not necessarily by far, does little to help Thalrassian prepare for a good offensive.

The door grates closed behind them, stones groaning and grinding into seemingly solid place. When they do, a door to Thalrassian’s right, which he had not noticed, opens. Before Thalrassian’s instant startle passes, a compact, but sturdy young man, tanned and wearing the clothes of any common worker—winter-weight blue jersey, a waistcoat done in yellow and brown tartan, brown breeches and gray hose—despite the rather . . . bright colors and patterning of some of them.

His face is fine-featured and puckish, despite some weathering, and his hair neat and short in a way that fairly shouts military, despite tousling that favorably highlights that boyish affect. His bright, brown eyes catch the faint light coming from the stairwell, making them appear to flicker and flash with good humor.

“Just wanted to make certain, is all,” he says to Thalrassian’s abductor—looking _up_ to do so. His cheeky grin is only a bit sheepish as he leans against a bit of wall (which presumably _doesn’t_ open) just beyond the door from which he’d emerged. He raps the wall jauntily with his knuckles then his curious, keen gaze ticks to Thalrassian. The grin doesn’t fade, but his brow furrows. “Can never be too careful’s the thing, or so I’ve heard. Buh-_loody_-Maker, Chief! I don’t think _this’s_ what the Inquisitor meant by asking you to play escort and bodyguard!”

A snort and chuckle rumble up and out of the chest against which Thalrassian is held so closely. “I think the boss knows my style better than you’re handing out credit for, Krem-de-Tartre. Diplomacy didn’t seem like it’d be an effective move in this case.”

“Yeah. I’m kinda gettin' that sense off him. Plus, y’know, if glares could kill, you and I’d both be pleading our cases to the Maker, sharpish,” the young man notes with mild bemusement, then shrugs again before sauntering to the landing. “Anyway, let’s get you both to it, Chief—I think they were about to start without you two, everyone’s so anxious to just get on with things!”

“Nobody’s startin’ nothin’ without the good doctor, Krem. Or me.” Thalrassian’s abductor says with another chuckle as he follows his fellow conspirator down the well-lit stair. He’s still carrying Thalrassian—who’s almost exactly six feet and two inches tall and no ninety-eight-pound weakling, either—as if he’s a child. And a small one, at that.

It would be _thrilling_ if it weren’t so damned unnerving.

As they reach the first curve of the stair, Thalrassian’s barely managed a very sketchy glyph and not even a quarter of the focus he can normally rally at the drop of a hat. After that curve, there’s a gradually curving corridor, not wide, but wide enough to admit Thalrassian’s huge aggressor without much navigation. There are iron-reinforced wooden doors set in it, at various intervals, and the corridor is well-lit enough that Thalrassian can see it runs quite a-ways, receding far hence for what might be at least half a mile, in the direction of the city-center . . . and ultimately the Upper and Lower Senante Houses, various elite Collegia Mystica or Arcana, and the Mysterium.

Thankfully or not, half a mile hence doesn’t seem to be the conspirators’ destination. The smaller man leading him stops about one dozen doors into their progress, before the thirteenth door on their right. He raises his hand and raps on the door just as he’d rapped the wall above . . . but sharply and precisely: a brief, tough-to-follow staccato.

The reinforced door opens immediately, easily—_is opened_ by one of two women, both of them elves. The one who’d opened the door is a [tall blonde](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656859/) with an hour-glass figure; wide, ice-blue eyes and facial tattoos; and the risqué-daring wardrobe of a sort that no society-lady (aspiring or achieving) would be caught wearing.

And . . . [matching gauntlets](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963662738/) of gray velvet set with gemstones and pewter charms, on both graceful hands.

And both, doubtlessly, see plenty of use. Indeed, Thalrassian has heard rumors of dual-wield mystics among the Dalish of Southern Thedas. Rare powerhouses treasured by their clans and often leading them—or so Malcolm has claimed. He’s infrequently told Thalrassian fascinating stories about these wild, never enslaved or tamed elves, and Thalrassian has found himself both incredulous and enchanted.

It hadn’t quite occurred to him that dual-wield mystics means twice the danger—especially if that dual-wield is a wild elf with no reason to give an Imperial mystic the benefit of the doubt.

And perhaps Thalrassian’s wide eyes and demeanor give away the run of his thoughts, because the elven mystic smirks and links her gauntleted hands, stretching them out before her nonchalantly. Then, she puts them on her hips with pointed deliberation.

“Oh, no need to worry on account of _me_, handsome,” she says in the Trade Tongue, yet with some barely intelligible southern accent—thicker than Malcolm’s impersonation-of-a-Ferelden-by-way-of-the-Marches one, by far. “I don’t bite. Not even ‘Vints . . . ‘less they bite first. Just ask Krem.”

“But they _do _have a well-known reputation for . . . biting first, _tourterelle_,” says [her companion](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656681/), a shorter, scrappy brunette in flexible, mostly seamless, reinforced brown leather from collar to foot. Belted at her waist, with the sheaths resting at hips-level, are two matched stilettos. They are attended by graceful and long, clever-looking and _ready_ hands in cut-off black gloves. Her dark, direct gaze and unreadable affect are rather intimidating. “Among other uncivilized tendencies.”

The brunette’s accent, unlike the blonde’s, is clearly Orlesian, unamused and disturbingly lacking in inflection or emotion.

“The good doctor won’t be biting anyone, tonight—more’s the pity,” Thalrassian’s abductor adds with a rumbling sigh that somehow manages to shake Thalrassian to the core. The man’s breath is warm and not even a little labored as it gusts gently past Thalrassian’s temple. “Though, I’m pretty sure he’s come close to fully priming that fancy gauntlet of his—pursuant to frying me to a crisp the moment I let him go. So, what say we get our anxious apothecary to the boss and get this all straightened out?”

“From your lips, to the Maker’s ears,” says boyish co-conspirator, Krem, with both relief and good cheer, stepping through the entryway as the two women move to each side of the door.

Thalrassian’s eyes widen as he finds himself in [another well-lit stairwell](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/452752568760750954/)—this one of ancient, mismatched stone and leading upward to another door—lit only by a lamp carried by the blonde, who leads them upward.

Bringing up the rear, Krem and the brunette are silent but keen presences.

The top of the stairwell is barred by a large, wide door set in an even larger landing—as if it was built to emit many more than just a man, his abductor, and a few co-conspirators.

The blonde unlocks and opens the door, standing to the side after swinging it out and to the wall. She sardonically waves Thalrassian’s abductor to proceed her. Without pause, the man does.

Once in the space beyond the open door, which is even more well-lit than the stairwell, Thalrassian blinks to acclimate his eyes and, once they do, he gasps then gapes at the people arrayed around the [large, windowless, brick-walled space in which he finds himself](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/208854501445959660/).

There are several chairs and sofas, some occupied and some not, and one large table near a huge, unused fireplace. To Thalrassian’s right and [deeper into the sparsely furnished space is a spiraling, wrought-iron stair that curves upward](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/321514860900658407/).

The two elven women and Krem make their way to this stair and up, disappearing at the top upon traversing a brief balcony—to yet another door, Thalrassian presumes when said door closes firmly behind them.

Then, the settling silence forces him to assess his new surroundings and, hopefully, the minds behind his abduction.

Leaning against the mantle of the cold fireplace is a slim man of average height wearing a striking evening suit in shades of midnight-blue and gray, and large black gloves that look more suited to work than to his evening apparel. He’s several shades paler than Thalrassian and his hair is a deep, raven’s shadow-black . . . done-up in braids, twists, and locs with colorful charms, feathers, and ribbon woven in . . . all tucked behind gracefully long and pointed ears.

His profile and expression seem calm and placid, his features foxlike, but forgettable. When he turns his head to meet Thalrassian’s gaze, _his_ is dark and intense—chilly and consuming, like a blustery night with neither moon or star or Earthly illumination.

Intimidatingly _indomitable_, as if he’s seen and weathered far more than any one person should and would—_and could_, if needed—live through ten thousand more without breaking stride or losing the mission.

To the right of _him,_ and closer to the spiral stair, a woman and man are speaking quietly, but passionately. The woman is dressed in a simple, but well-made frockcoat trimmed with black, and black trousers and boots. Her short, dark hair is neat, if indifferently so, and her gaze is pale and piercing. Sheathed at her sides are a military-issue cutlass—[a ranking officer’s blade](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6d/39/61/6d39619fee235d7e96293a649dbbfa1d.jpg) that sees more than ceremonial use, it’s clear—and a well-maintained [flintlock pistol](http://img3.redwolfairsoft.com/upload/product/img/KWT-FP-1L.jpg) of a vintage that’d been popular when Thalrassian’s father had been quite young, and which sees as much use as the cutlass.

The officer’s companion, a blond of about her height—and possessed of a haunted, thousand-yard stare—is carrying enough gadgetry and weaponry to be his own army, including several pistols and blades all about his person and a ridiculously huge sort of . . . jury-rigged Branka-gun, with the business-end balanced over his right shoulder, as if it weighs nothing. His clothing is dark, somewhat dusty, and forgettable: a worsted shirt in a faded shade of burgundy, a waistcoat in some shade of grayish-brown, and black trousers and boots. On his left hand is a strange gauntlet made of weathered, but cared-for brown leather, set with strange epaulets, pips, and emblems Thalrassian doesn’t recognize—one of which looks like . . . an eye and a sword, done in silver and spectral-green. . . .

A modest top hat with goggles resting on the brim completes this impressive and outlandish character.

The woman suddenly glances Thalrassian’s way, wide-eyed but grim, and hushes her companion. He follows her gaze and frowns. They both turn to face him fully and he notes that the woman is also wearing one of those eye-and-sword gauntlets, though hers is of black leather, rather than brown.

“Took you long enough, Bull. We were starting to get worried,” says a terse, but friendly voice from Thalrassian’s left. A man wearing an undershirt, trousers and braces, and boots, is leaning against the large table, his burly-hairy arms crossed. They’re pale, muscular, and covered in tattoos. His short, silvering dark hair is a mess, as is his beard. But his mustache is as neatly tended as Thalrassian’s.

Also leaning against the table, not far from the burly man, is a woman of such ravishing beauty, flawless grace, and pitch-perfect fashion sense, that she _must_ be Antivan. She’s staring down at the table . . . at a detailed map upon it. Her long, dark hair is braided into a pinned-up ponytail, and her outfit is simple and tasteful—the sort of thing a gentle-lady proprietress might wear while managing her shop: black and gray pinstriped trousers and matching mock-waistcoat, over a white, ruffled shirt.

“Worried about ol’ Bull, Thommy-Boy? _Really_?” Thalrassian’s kidnapper—_Bull_—asks with overdone surprise, and the burly man snorts.

“No, not _really_.” He chuckles and Bull joins him. Their laughter causes all attention and regard to shift to them. Even that of two people Thalrassian hadn’t quite noticed prior:

Sitting in a dark sofa not far from the door through which Thalrassian had just been carried—but angled more toward the table and mantle—is a hooded figure in all black, from head to feet, tunic and jacket to trouser and boots. In fact, the only thing that isn’t black are the fingers that poke from his fingerless gloves. _Those_ are rough and tan, but for strange, intricate white tattoos that seem to swirl along their lengths.

The man—for Thalrassian can suss out at least that much—has his face turned downward and away, utterly obscured by cloth and shadow.

To his left sits another man, one who’s _very_ familiar and so precisely just beyond his companion’s immediate touching distance yet near enough apart that Thalrassian can tell how carefully considered that near-distance is—and how unwanted—based on little more than the empty, but quivering space that has resulted.

And possibly by the demeanor of the dark-clad man a single miserable sofa cushion to the right.

Not that _any of that_ matters, when—

“Mmmoowumm!”

At this garbled-muffled exclamation, the man on the left lifts his dark, weary gaze to Thalrassian, followed by an even wearier, but pleased smile.

“Hullo,” [_Malcolm-bloody-sodding-Maker-blamed-Garrett_](https://www.pinterest.com/beetleb80/art-for-upcoming-dai-fanfic-series/hawke-fenris/) says, quiet and uncertain—smiling small and grave, but sheepishly, too. And anxiously, most of all. “Er. All right, there, [Dorian](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963656587/)?”

Such is Thalrassian’s great, if possibly premature relief—Malcolm’s seeming safety among these . . . people has yet to suggest anything regarding Thalrassian’s own safety—that he sags in his abductor’s arms, barely noticing that he’s been placed rather gently on his feet, if not fully released.

And then, he _is_ fully released, and doesn’t even notice until he’s hurtled across the distance between himself and Malcolm—mere yards that seem like eternities—to fling himself into the taller man’s rangy, ridiculously strong arms. Malcolm, who’s only just stood up, is good enough to catch him. His nervous smile is all the relief and reassurance in the world.

Thalrassian happily, shamelessly allows and encourages the sort of hug he’d once have disdained giving and/or receiving in a public place—even just an hour ago. Now, Thalrassian returns it with equal fervor, even laughing when Malcolm laughs and briefly lifts him off his feet.

He smells _exactly_ as Thalrassian expects and remembers: iron and ozone, clean skin and mild soap, tea and peppermint.

Thalrassian has never missed _anyone_ as much as he’s missed Malcolm Garrett, this past half-year.

“You great, bloody bear!” the somewhat overwrought doctor exclaims, still laughing as if he’s run daft. Even after he’s been placed once again on his feet and is being held back a bit so Malcolm can look him over with observant, assessing dark eyes. That piercing scan stops at Thalrassian’s face and eyes, and Malcolm smiles again: earnest and unshielded.

“You’re all right, then?”

“Certainly better, now, yes!” Thalrassian exhales, flushing deeply as he debates fighting his long-since entrenched, but faded habit of falling up into Malcolm’s eyes. Oh, Thalrassian’s mostly tamed his unfortunate enamor with the great champion of his life, but in moments like this . . . in moments like this, Thalrassian cannot imagine pulling himself up out of the pit of such an unrivaled and unprecedented infatuation. He can only imagine looking for a larger shovel. “At least, I hope I am! Malcolm—what’s going on? Are you behind this . . . abduction?”

Malcolm sighs and his large hands fall away from Thalrassian’s upper arms. Their warmth and gentility are instantly missed. “I suppose I am, after a fashion. And I’m sorry for the measures we’ve had to take. The, ah, _Inquisition_ was quite insistent, however. My word that you were to be trusted without question apparently doesn’t mean much.”

“Well. And he would not have been the first mystic you trusted above all others, who then betrayed that trust to the ruin of many, Hawke. And he might _still_ be not-the-first, if you take my meaning.”

This, from the hooded and mysterious man sitting one cushion to Malcolm’s right. Thalrassian looks over to find the man is staring right back. Even so, he’s little more than a small swatch of tanned and tattooed chin—the same white, iridescent-intricate designs—and fierce green eyes like a riled feline. A suggestion of more ghostly lines seem to haunt the obscuring shadows shrouding his face.

Malcolm sighs and shakes his head. “It’s been nearly ten years since that was already driven irrevocably home to me, [Fenris](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963916790/). Could you leave the recriminations and blame for, perhaps, a few days after the novelty of me not being dead has worn-off for you? Or am I presuming too much to think that it hasn’t already?”

The hooded man’s face turns down, but not before Thalrassian clocks a flash of hurt in those fierce eyes. “That you live is a novelty that will _never_, as you say, _wear off_, Hawke. Not for me and not ever.”

In the deep, shocked, _wounded_ silence that follows that statement, Thalrassian looks at his friend and catches the strangest look of helpless, hopeful yearning on Malcolm’s kind-tired face.

He _witnesses_, for the first time, Malcolm Garrett’s full and open heart, in his eyes and his expression. In his palm, and presented—probably not for the first time, even just tonight—to the walled-off and thorny man sitting to his right.

_Oh_, Thalrassian thinks, understanding—at last—the occasional wall in Malcolm’s eyes and in Malcolm’s _being_, that usually only springs up when Thalrassian gets too close . . . emotionally or physically. _Here at last, is the reason he shuns amorous entanglements and even brief dalliances of fun or convenience_.

His gaze bouncing between them both—so far apart, yet so close they likely share a heartbeat and each other’s dreams—Thalrassian finally puts down the latest in a brief series of shovels (this one imprinted with a worn, but once deeply-graven **MALCOLM H. GARRETTT**) and, with a sigh of his own, starts looking around his infatuation-pit for passable handholds leading up and _out_.

At long last.

He turns away from Malcolm and his . . . _his Fenris_, toward the striking elf leaning against the fireplace, who’s watching him with unreadable eyes and a small, commiserative smile that disappears so quickly, Thalrassian’s scarcely sure he’d seen it.

“What _is this_, serah? What’s going on? Why have I been kidnapped and what do you expect to come of it, if not an embarrassingly small ransom?”

The man straightens a little and smiles again. “Of course. Explanations are certainly in order. But first, allow me to introduce myself and my party. My name is [Mahanon Lavellan](https://www.pinterest.com/beetleb80/art-for-upcoming-dai-fanfic-series/lavellan/). To my left, are [Lady Cassandra Pentaghast](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963663298/) and [Ser Cullen Rutherford](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963657197/). To my right, are [Lady Josephine Montilyet](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963661934/) and . . . [Thom Rainier](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963657154/). Hawke—er, _Malcolm_, you already know. His, er . . . companion—”

“Can introduce himself, if he sees the need, Inquisitor,” Fenris adds, dour and terse from the depths of his hood.

“Fair enough . . . well.” The leader of the group, Mahanon Lavellan, allows absently, his brows lifting, but showing no other sign of discommode. He inclines his head in Fenris’s direction then returns his attention to Thalrassian. “And, of course, you’ve already met our colleague, [The Iron Bull](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/571535008963667405/) . . . though, he may not have formally introduced himself.”

When Mahanon Lavellan flicks a sardonic and knowing _look_ over Thalrassian’s shoulder, Thalrassian turns quickly, startled at having forgotten his large and implacable abductor.

The giant who’d so effectively waylaid Thalrassian is, as Thalrassian had surmised, a Vashoth (or, less likely, a _Tal_-Vashoth) mercenary or hire-muscle. Minrathous is lousy with both . . . as is more and more the case since the Qunari mysteriously relinquished Kon-taar and Seere—their final two settlements on the northern coast of Rivain—nearly a decade prior. Their very recent abandonment of Seheron and the full lock-down of Par Vollen has further made it plain that the Qunari’s biggest priority now is not conquest and conversion but keeping out all those they deem _bas_ or _saarebas_.

In the sixteen months since that border-closing, and even in the civilized and strictly-policed heart of the Imperium, Vashoth (more so than the dwindling ranks of _Tal_-Vashoth, who tend to still harbor first-hand grudges against the Imperium and mystics) are common beyond a second glance—or perhaps a third, in more rural and isolated Imperial counties.

_This_ Vashoth, whatever his story, stands at least seven feet tall, just as Thalrassian had surmised. He’s dressed much like any other prosperous mercenary of his ilk: a long, brown leather surcoat trimmed in cream and green, but over a distractingly bare and broad chest; a pair of tan breeches that leave little to the imagination (not that _Thalrassian’s_ imagination is complaining); tall, shining black boots; and, in a belted scabbard, a two-handed saber so huge—clearly made for chopping, more than slashing, but with a wicked curve at the tip that would certainly make it effective for that latter on foot, if not horseback—Thalrassian’s certain it’s far wider and longer of blade than the largest claymore he’s ever heard legend of. Taller, possibly, than Thalrassian, _himself_.

There are tattoos all over his Marengo-colored barrel of a shirtless chest, as well as that [strange talisman Thalrassian had felt pressing into his back](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/379076493631413940/). Even as he means to study it and divine its nature, his gaze and attention skitters away—up to the mercenary’s face. It’s craggy and stubbly, and rather brutishly handsome, at that. The black and silver eye-patch over his left eye adds yet another element of danger to this dashing, safety-hazard of a person. Not to mention—

Not to mention the horns. _Large_, black horns growing out of his Marengo-colored head, and which stick out to the sides, not too far above and behind his temples.

Dr. D. P. Thalrassian had—quite earnestly and with rather surprising, if nostalgic ease—been well-on his way regarding hauling himself out of his Malcolm Garrett-infatuation pit. Level ground had been within his purview with startling (if suspect) immediacy, even. But, upon finally, _finally_ catching sight of this giant who’s so effectively waylaid him and detained him, Thalrassian finds his sudden and tentative sighting of figurative _terra firma_ short-lived.

_He finds himself_ tumbling back into the pit as if he’d been kicked. The shovel still laying ready at bottom no longer has the faded name of _his friend and business partner_ carved into the handle.

Now, there’s room for another name, entirely.

After too long spent gazing and gaping up at this ridiculously _strapping_, _ridiculously_ rakish, _ridiculously striking_ brigand, Thalrassian can only flush yet again, take an almost gulping breath, and aim a ferocious scowl the man’s way.

“Pleasure,” he drawls, icily polite and unimpeachably well-mannered—not practically hissing like water droplets on heated metal, but certainly giving that impression . . . unless he’s lost his touch along with his former status.

This . . . Vashoth—_The Iron Bull_—grins, wide and cheerful, but Thalrassian doesn’t miss the considering, rather heated once-over The Iron Bull gives him. He doesn’t miss the way that smile curls into a smirk for a few seconds before the giant rumbles out a low chuckle and winks. Or . . . possibly just blinks. Neither is helpful to Thalrassian in trying to corral his fierce blush.

“Yeah . . . that pleasure’s probably all mine, too. But it’s nice tameetcha, anyway, Doc,” The Iron Bull says, and Thalrassian feels both the timbre and sentiment of that greeting in his marrow. Feels it in knees that briefly forget how to do their business.

Huffing to cover his fluster and his inability to maintain a glare or even a scowl, Thalrassian turns back to Mahanon Lavellan, who smiles his distant, watchful smile.

“Welcome to the under-cellar of _The Spurned Chevalier_,” the daunting and discomfiting elf says, still about as readable as a protective mana-field set around some secret or treasure. He shoots a brief glance at Thom Rainier, half-questioning, and Rainier shrugs and nods, his beefy, colorful arms still crossed. The look Lavellan turns back to Thalrassian is still grave, but it’s gone a bit wry. “And to the . . . _erstwhile_ headquarters of the Inquisition-in-Exile.”

At this pronouncement, Thalrassian turns two quick, uneven circles, looking around him at the people gathered in this cellar. Finally, overwhelmed, annoyed, weary—still relieved by Malcolm’s presence . . . but _distinctly_ _discombobulated_ by The Iron Bull’s—not to mention _stroppy_, Thalrassian settles on the only person he currently trusts.

When that person finally turns his lost, hopeful gaze away from Fenris’s cat’s-eyes-set-amongst-shadows, Thalrassian shakes his head and throws his hands up in concession.

“Fine. I take the bait,” he says, clipped and controlled as he adopts an arms akimbo stance of which his mother would feel proud . . . and vindicated. Malcolm smiles that anxious-sheepish little smile again and Thalrassian sighs. “_What_, exactly, is an _Inquisition_, Malcolm? Why is it in exile, and from _where_? What’s it doing in _Minrathous_ and abducting well-heeled mystics? And _why_ in the Maker’s holy Name are you _helping it along_?”

Malcolm smiles—starts to answer—then shakes his head ruefully. He glances first at the sulking, shadowy Fenris, to his right, then back and to his left at Lavellan.

“Well?” he prompts with no small amount of exasperation and anger, eyes narrowed and profile stony. “Seems like only that last one is mine to answer, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan’s barely-there-smile widens but becomes no more reassuring or warm. Nor is it meant to be, Thalrassian senses. That smile quite possibly has several _raisons d’etre_, but _none_ of them are—nor is Lavellan, himself—predicated on reassurance and warmth.

“Of course.” The unsettling elf’s nod is slight, but scrupulously gracious, before that watchful regard shifts back to Thalrassian and weighs him for what is likely the umpteenth time. “Dr. Thalrassian, I must thank you again, for bearing with us at this time of . . . uncertainty and transition. I must also ask you to bear with us for a while longer. To hear our story told and the possibilities for its sequel, as it were.”

When Thalrassian nods reluctantly, Lavellan’s gaze drifts over his left shoulder. Thalrassian doesn’t even have time to turn before he can sense and scent The Iron Bull behind him . . . still massive, but not at all threatening.

Rather, not threatening in a way Thalrassian finds remotely disagreeable.

“Best seat in the house, Doc. For the moment,” the large man murmurs as something hard and edged brushes the backs of Thalrassian’s legs. His subconscious recognizes the brush as the seat-edge a chair and folds his selectively enervated legs gracefully, if quickly, into the most well-timed piece of furniture in Minrathous.

“Thank you, Messere Bull,” he half-whispers, having meant for the acknowledgement to be cold and snarky once more. But he makes the mistake of glancing up and back at The Iron Bull as he speaks, and finds himself robbed of both snarkery and breath.

The Iron Bull’s face has gone surprisingly somber and curious, his pale, gray-brown eye keen, but not unkindly so. His wide mouth is set in a far less rakish, smaller version of its previous grin. It is, in fact, as bare a smile as Lavellan’s, yet radiates such reassurance and warmth—and, also, sardonic camaraderie—Thalrassian finds himself more inclined to relax than he’s been all night.

“Like I said, Doc, the pleasure’s _all_ mine.” The Iron Bull’s smile deepens just a tic, then he moves pointedly, respectfully out of Thalrassian’s personal space . . . but not an inch further than propriety would demand. He crosses his huge arms as if ready to take on all comers in _someone’s_ defense.

Fighting another flush and an absurdly pleased smile, Thalrassian focuses on Lavellan again, ignoring the elf’s knowing stare and amused expression. “Well, you’ve certainly captured my attention, Messere Lavellan. Don’t leave me hanging, as _that_ were.”

Chuckling, Lavellan’s affect of distance—and though much of it is clearly not affected, some of it surely is—cracks a bit, letting out a weary wryness that’s not dissimilar to Malcolm’s typical mood. Though Lavellan’s seems more intense, unsurprisingly. Harder, colder, and . . . _forceful_.

A focused-driven _unstoppable force_, in contrast to Malcolm’s quietly immovable and steadfast object.

“Some of this you’ll have already heard whispers about . . . but, no.” Lavellan pauses, brow furrowed as he looks down for a few moments to recollect his thoughts. “No, even what you already know, or _think you already know_, will be at least as much lies as truth.” This time, when his regard returns to Thalrassian, it’s more stoic than distant, and more pained than wry.

And something about his gaze—or staring out from behind it—is as disconcerting to Thalrassian as suddenly having the floor drop out from under his feet.

“You . . . may wish to keep your ears perked, throughout, doctor,” Lavellan finally advises somberly, “because this, as [a good friend of mine](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/740490363708074349/) might say . . . _this_ is the _creepy shit_.”

**"The Victorian Affair" by [Tevinterphoenix](https://tevinterphoenix.tumblr.com/), for the 2019 Adoribull Reverse Big Bang.**

**Author's Note:**

> **  
End notes:**  
  
Art and description prompt: [In Victorian Tevinter, upper crust Dorian takes a wrong turn and finds himself face to face with some of the city’s rabble.](https://tevinterphoenix.tumblr.com/post/190311532929/well-its-been-a-hot-minute-since-i-posted)  
  
  
  
**Thanks:**  
  
To anyone giving this a read (and hopefully a comment and/or kudo :-)  
  
  
  
**Resources & References for this fic:**  
  
[Dragon Age Wiki](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Dragon_Age_Wiki)  
[Bull’s Canon Height](https://herald-adaar.tumblr.com/post/162138561101/bulls-canon-height)  
[Rocksandco.com](https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&source=images&cd=&ved=2ahUKEwihheOZiYvnAhUC01kKHb5yBoAQjRx6BAgBEAQ&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.rocksandco.com%2Fgemstone-information%2Fgemstone-cuts%2F&psig=AOvVaw0aPsxDuX-TnuZuqFVP5qzD&ust=1579365519562631)  
Wikipedia  
Google  
  
  
  
**Powered by:**  
  
beetle’s [By Gaslamp’s Light: An Adoribull Lyriumpunk Mix](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDZSuw00OZ3ZXQOgZKEBioNqHDefabmwG), which draws from the masterlist of compiled music for this series, [SOURCE - The Complete Lyriumpunk Thedas Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDZSuw00OZ3bmSvLJL9flWRhToVBH0u8k)  
  
  
  
  
[TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!**  
**


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